The Secret Diary of AJ Crowley
by Ripper
Summary: Eternity can be hell when all you have to do is drink, nap, look for sump oil and wait for Ursula Andress to die...
1. Don't you have work to do?

The Secret Diary of Anthony J. Crowley (aged 6002 and 5/6)  
  
15th October, 2002:  
  
Forgot meeting with Aziraphale, who got rather snippy, and has given me this book in which to keep track of the days. Attempted to explain pointlessness of endeavour, but to no avail. Thus, am keeping book under threat of paying for dining. Hate the Angel. Require milk, light bulbs, and sump oil.  
  
10:30 am: In attempt to cheer self up, brought about ugly fight between young lovers in park. Hahaha.  
  
10:32 am: Vaguely remorseful. Why? Also, forgot to purchase milk, light bulbs, sump oil.  
  
10:55am: Elevenses. Feel v. much better.  
  
11:15 am: Nap.  
  
Noon: Lunch. Alone. Hate the Angel.   
  
One-ish: Caused massive traffic gridlock on way home. Much shouting. V. tiring. Nap.  
  
3:06 pm: Nothing on telly, except Blue Peter. Which reminds me: monthly report for the Dark Prince of Pain due tomorrow. Will start as soon as Blue Peter finished.  
  
3:10 pm: Pasta sculpture on Blue Peter v. impressive.  
  
3:30pm: Nap.  
  
7:54: Note slipped under door from Aziraphale (why does he fear the ansaphone?), asking if I would like to do dinner. Will snub.  
  
7:55: Angel's handwriting looks v. apologetic. Considering relenting.  
  
7:56: No. Must do report for Hades, else may lose parking privileges again. Besides, still miffed at Angel. Will not relent. Will not go out. Will stay home and work.  
  
1:05893243483whocares? : Waaheeeyyyylove the Angle. Angle luvverly. Mmm.Noprollem with wrritng for tmoorow. Writit in mrning. Bloodygooood.  
  
  
  
16th October, 2002:  
  
7am: Mmmgk.  
  
8am: Ahhhh...need water.   
  
9am: Got up. Phoned Emma Thompson for appointment on Friday. Lovely girl. Nap.  
  
9:06: Realised should be doing report. Will have brief snooze first.  
  
Noonish: Lunch.  
  
Noonish-oh-four: Threw up lunch. Why feeling seedy? Must be getting old. Will check birthday.  
  
Noonish-oh-eight: Six days till birthday! Will have small drink to celebrate. Then will do report.  
  
1:44: Nap.  
  
  
17th October 2002:  
  
7:02am: Oh, shit. 


	2. Happy Bloody Birthday

Okay, with regard to Crowley's birthday: I consider his Birthday to   
be the day he fell -or became what we now know as Crowley- and not   
the day he was forged as an angel (when the rest of the universe was   
created). As the universe was created on 21st of October (at 9am),   
and everything in Genesis is counted in days, I consider the Fall to   
be one metaphorical Day after Creation (too many capitals). Thus:   
Crowley's Twisted Version of a Birthday (also the Birthday of every   
other fallen angel) is on the 22nd October. This would make Zirah's   
birthday the 21st- something which Crowley seems to have   
forgotten...Thanks for your shiny lovely feedback. Much love.  
  
  
18th October 2002:  
  
Close. Very, very close. Fortunately, was able to blame entire   
Missing Report Debacle on HellEx couriers (noted for inefficiency as   
well as random bouts of psychotic sniper activity), giving self   
enough time to pull report from arse. Both stressful and exhausting.   
Nap.  
  
  
19th October 2002:  
  
7am: Good God, what am I doing awake? Madness.  
  
8:46am: Slightly better. Slid down to Marks & Spencer's to purchase   
milk, light bulbs, sump oil. Snooty managerial person with protruding   
Adam's apple and bad skin objected to dressing gown & slipper   
ensemble. Pointed out that self's sleepwear was more stylish and   
fashionable than quite possibly his entire wardrobe, whereupon Hello-  
My-Name-Is-Quentin became irate. Happily, he spontaneously combusted   
before he could call security (probably karma or high cholesterol).   
Procured milk and light bulbs. Where is sump oil?  
  
10am: Early elevenses. Light bulbs stale. Typical. Nap.  
  
11:02am: Phone conference with Paul McCartney. V. scary. Require   
stiff drink.  
  
11:06am: Another drink, just to be safe.  
  
11:14am: May as well finish the bottle.  
  
11:30am: Nap.  
  
2:07pm: Situation! Decided to play Bowie album, only to find missing.   
Someone will pay.  
  
2:09pm: Remembered lent Ziggy Stardust LP to Aziraphale, in futile   
attempt to introduce modicum of sanity to Angel's musical collection.   
Bugger. Need that to wank to.  
  
2:14pm: Wanking to Stranglers EP simply not the same. Must call Angel   
to retrieve record. Perhaps later: feel oddly disinclined to talk to   
Aziraphale just at present.  
  
3:07pm: Restless.  
  
3:14pm: In order to occupy self (and hopefully shake out of strange   
and unfathomable funk) will make plans for impending birthday. Three   
days to go, and have not organised party.  
  
3:16pm: No party. Have no friends. Who will give me presents?   
Aziraphale might, but have never mentioned birthday to him before.   
Must drop subtle hints. Will invite Angel for tea after casually   
mentioning it when asking after record. Perfect.  
  
5:03pm: Have rung Angel. He has melted Bowie album after accidentally   
leaving on stove. Shall put scorpions in his underwear while he   
sleeps.  
  
5:04pm: Does Aziraphale even *wear* underwear?  
  
5:05pm: Am now plagued by horrible images of Aziraphale sans   
trousers. My own subconscious conspires against me. Require drink.  
  
  
20th October 2002:  
  
Drunk.  
  
  
21st October 2002:  
  
10:34am: Message from Angel- on ansaphone, no less! Apologising   
profusely for previous night. How nice.  
  
10:36am: Have come to sudden & horrible realisation that I have no   
memory of previous night. This does not bode well. Must call Angel to   
clarify situation.  
  
11:03am: Ugh. Apparently, "previous" night refers to 19th, wherein I   
made drunken call to Aziraphale and abused him soundly for several   
hours, then burst into tears. Will take own life by placing head in   
oven.  
  
11:05am: Haven't got an oven. Also, am immortal. Bugger. Telly.  
  
12:45: Wish I were Sean Connery.   
  
12:46: Wish I had Ursula Andress. Will have to wait until post   
mortem, worse luck.  
  
1:16pm: Went for walk/stroll. Helped large franchise corporation take   
over small family-run delicatessen, replacing quality goods and   
friendly service with bland trendy nastiness. Also, gave CEO of said   
corp. severe and incurable venereal disease. (Was not on behalf of   
Aziraphale, who I still loathe. CEO was tosser.)  
  
3:43pm: Nap.  
  
5:21pm: Recalled that today marks creation of world. Had a drink in   
celebration. Good old world. Also means tomorrow is birthday.   
Depressing. Will be 6006- feeling almost past it. Need sex.  
  
11:18pm: Lovely girl. Lovely boy, too. Still feeling old.  
  
  
22nd October 2002:  
  
5:14am: Happy bloody birthday to me.  
  
5:49am: No presents yet.  
  
6:18am: Champagne for breakfast. And why not? Am very very old and   
shall do exactly as I please. Come to think of it, I generally do.  
  
6:24am: Took Bentley for a spin to cheer self up. Love London in the   
early morning, when the streets are nice and clean, before all the   
people and pigeons come out. Played the Pixies very loud for a happy   
half hour before they turned into "Seven Seas of Rhye".  
  
7:02am: Am parked outside Aziraphale's empty shop. I drive all the   
way over here so he can give me my birthday present, and he hasn't   
the decency to be in. Typical.  
  
8:18am: Sent Bentley on home without me and took Tube. Most excellent   
trip: caused wrong kind of snow on rails (underground yet), and   
massive peak-hour hold up. Much angst. Slipped out through emergency   
exit and took short cut through tunnel, where saw v. strange young   
lady disappear through a wall. Must lay off the Tanqueray.  
  
9:20am: Home again, home again, jiggity jig. Post has been! Parcels   
for me.  
  
10:11am: Completely pants presents. Snide card from Hastur (who feels   
Birthdays are disgustingly "human"), almost identical to the one I   
sent him. Gift voucher from Himself. Self-help book from Gabriel, the   
bastard. Nothing from Aziraphale, not that I care. He has most likely   
forgotten. However, small box of chocolates from that nice Mrs   
Wormwood who does for Mephistopheles.   
  
10:13am: Nougat. Every bloody one of them nougat- save for one with a   
dead scorpion in. A bit melted, but otherwise ok.  
  
10:14am: Hate everyone.  
  
11:02am: Starting to get cold. Love Autumn. Usually go to Hyde Park   
with Angel round about now to watch leaves. However, Angel is a   
bastard, so will have nothing further to do with him.  
  
Noon: Realised have not eaten for several days, except for manky   
chocolates. Don't care. Sick of this body, anyway.  
  
2:34pm: Holiday specials! Already! Shall report below: Himself will   
*not* be pleased.  
  
2:37pm: Nap.  
  
5:45pm: No reason to get up.  
  
5:46pm: Drink.  
  
5:52pm: Knock at door. More post?  
  
5:56pm: Going out! Happy birthday to me!  
  
  
23rd October 2002:  
  
Last night turned out to be utterly brilliant and lovely. Aziraphale   
had not forgotten birthday, but instead spent day planning fantastic   
night with food, drink, club, etc. Also, best present ever: Bowie   
album not only still intact, but signed for me! Sneaky Angel. How'd   
he pull that? V. tired, but happy. Actually, will only be happy once   
have shoved self-help tome so far up Gabriel's tight arse that he   
coughs staples (although Angel claims first dibs on this). 


End file.
